The Ragged Edge eBook

The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew
what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right:
Ruth must never know. To find the true father
at the expense of the beautiful fairy tale Ruth had
woven around the woman in the locket was an intolerable
thought. But the father, to go his way forever
alone! The iron in the man!—­the iron
in this child of his!

Wanting a little love, a caress now and then.
Spurlock bent his head to his knees. He took
into his soul some of the father’s misery, some
of the daughter’s, to mingle with his own.
Enschede, to have starved his heart as well as Ruth’s
because, having laid a curse, he knew not how to turn
aside from it! How easily he might have forgotten
the unworthy mother in the love of the child!
And this day to hear her voice lifted in a quality
of anathema. Poor Ruth: for a father, a
madman; for a husband—­a thief!

Spurlock rocked his body slightly. He knew that
at this moment Ruth lay upon her bed in torment, for
she was by nature tender; and the reaction of her
scathing words, no matter how justifiable, would be
putting scars on her soul. And he, her lawful
husband, dared not go to her and console her!
Accursed—­all of them—­Enschede,
Ruth, and himself.

“Enschede?—­her father? What’s
happened?” McClintock sat down. “Do
you mean to tell me he’s come and gone in an
hour? What the devil kind of a father is he?”

Spurlock shook his head.

“What’s become of Ruth?”

“Gone to her room.”

“Come, lad; let’s have it,” said
McClintock. “Anything that concerns Ruth
is of interest to me. What happened between Ruth
and her father that made him hurry off without passing
ordinary courtesies with me?”

“I suppose I ought to tell you,” said
Spurlock; “but it is understood that Ruth shall
never know the truth.”

“Not if it will hurt her.”

“Hurt her? It would tear her to pieces;
God knows she has had enough. Her mother....
Do you recall the night she showed you the face in
the locket? Do you remember how she said—­’If
only my mother had lived’? Did you ever
see anything more tender or beautiful?”

“I remember. Go on and tell me.”

When Spurlock had finished the tale, touched here
and there by his own imagination, McClintock made
a negative sign.

“So that was it? And what the devil are
you doing here, moping alone on the beach? Why
aren’t you with her in this hour of bitterness?”

“What can I do?”

“You can go to her and take her in your arms.”

“I might have been able to do that if you hadn’t
told me ... she cared.”